The Diner Up the Road

 

The Diner Up the Road

(“I am a debtor both to Greeks and to barbarians, both to the wise and to the foolish.” Romans 1:14)

The times have dictated their letters to me and
left me on my own to affix the signature.
Rolling over snow drifts melting in the warming rain
I move from yesterday to noon,
from leftward to soon,
from literature to mixology,
from my wicker chair to the indented couch.

I would thrust my hand through the dimensions if
I could.
I would reach behind me before you died and ask
for one more time at Denny’s or a ride on the back of your
Honda.

I would read the books again, in the same edition,
of my favorite authors. I would smell the chalk and
greasepaint
in the rehearsal space where we used to eat our lunches,
run our lines, rehearse our plays, and make dates for
the weekend; mud football or a day wandering the
basement shops in Berkely. I discovered Tom Rush
that way.

The days are much too quiet while I am still alive,
and you, and them, and cousins, and friends, and parents,
and sisters, have flown from this orb while I lose track
of the living.

I would adjust the tuner if I could, ensure a better reception.
I would place my heart in your ears, not my words,
for you to hear the aching inflection. We made mistakes
nearly every minute in those days, but friendships never swayed.
How could they, and where would we go?

Now the same, the beloved, the laughter, the root beer mugs in the freezer,
are forgotten joys since we’ve learned to play with adulting toys.
And yet, you; the circle of prayer cross-legged on the floor,
the study group I skipped too often,
the gang of three that always included me
when we met for lunch in the quad just to see
if the pie-eating contest was still going ahead as scheduled.

And I am sandpaper, and I am silk. And I am crepe paper,
and I am cardboard. And I would sit at this table,
the diner up the road, ordering hash and eggs
and setting out a second cup of coffee in the hopes
that you would take the seat next to me
and discover that

My tears and my laughter are both still the same.